


Sharpen your teeth on the cut of my bones

by BakedAppleSauce



Category: True Detective
Genre: (Because they're both drunk), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Basically, Emotional Hurt, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, but not... very nice, everybody emotions all over the place, it's not a completely heartless one either, this is not a very nice story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22943866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: It doesn't come as a surprise – far from it, actually, because Rust has never really thought about this (which is a fucking lie and a half) but it always seemed fairly obvious that even in theory, for Marty it would be all about dominance, about “being a man”, about calling all the shots; even more so now, after Rust went and smashed his fucking ego to pieces along with his marriage.In which Rust might have quit his job, but that doesn't mean Marty's done being mad.
Relationships: Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Martin "Marty" Hart
Comments: 16
Kudos: 72





	Sharpen your teeth on the cut of my bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xJuniperx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/gifts).



The door handle twists right out of Rust’s hand as the door slams open; he doesn’t even register what’s happening before it bangs against the wall so hard his molars seems to reverberate with the force of it. Too drunk, too slow, too fucking tired. 

Over and done with. 

Marty’s standing there, perfectly framed by the doorway, expression twisted with rage. He’s drunk as well, Rust realizes, because he’s blinking at Rust stupidly, red-faced and with that dull gleam in his eye he always gets when he doesn’t stick to beer exclusively. His face looks terrible – but then again, Rust is bound to look pretty bad as well. Has to guess that, honestly, because he hasn’t bothered to look into any mirrors the whole day, didn’t even bother to clean himself up, maybe patch up the worst of it or anything like that. 

Considered going out for about five seconds after he got home, drink the fucking memory of the last twenty-four hours away in some shithole bar nobody’s ever heard of before, but in the end, he already had all he needed stashed away right here in the apartment anyway. It’s a weird fucking parallel, his brain supplies hazily, unhelpfully, first Maggie, now Marty, everybody coming round to try and knock his door down, kick down his fucking walls and take aim at his non-existing soul while they’re at it. 

It occurs to him that Marty might be armed. Would be a dumbass thing to do, killing Rust right here, right now, because Marty _just_ tried to knock his teeth out this very morning. Wouldn’t be a complicated riddle to solve, if Rust ends up shot dead on his own doorstep; but then again, he’s more than familiar with the people who’d attempt the actual solving, and it is a sad fucking state of affairs. 

They both just stand there for a few long seconds, wordlessly staring at each other, seemingly at a loss. Rust thinks he might be swaying in place a bit, can’t be sure. Can’t spot a gun either, but then again, Marty might’ve done the smart thing for once in his fucking life and brought a crowbar or something; and it is strange as hell, Rust thinks, this fucking need of his to analyze everything that won’t go away. Even now, even like this. Survival instinct, probably, something animalistic and fundamental that Rust has been trying to burn out of himself for a decade at this point, with no luck whatsoever. 

“Fuck’re you doin’ here, man,” he says, which is the wrong move, that becomes immediately clear, because Marty lights up like some unexpected headlights on a deserted road in the middle of the night, bad news all around; violence sparking behind his eyes, making his whole body come alive. Rust doesn’t try to resist. Thinks he probably could, if it really came down to it, and he _might_ in a minute or two. Doesn’t how sluggish he’s feeling and it balances out anyway, because Marty’s not entirely steady on his feet either. 

He charges at Rust with his mouth set and his shoulders squared, shoves him backwards until they hit an obstacle, which turns out to be the wall; crash into it with enough force Rust hits his head so hard his ears start to ring with the impact. Marty’s got both hands fisted in the wifebeater Rust's wearing, so tight the fabric is straining in his grip like it might rip, and Rust fumbles for his arms, clumsy, trying to breathe through the pain at the back of his skull, radiating down his neck. 

_“Fuck. you.”_ Marty hisses at him, two syllables injected with hatred. “I fuckin’ told you this ain’t over.”

The door is still open, an evening-bright rectangle against the gloomy inside of the apartment, glowing like an exit sign right behind Marty’s shoulder. Rust stares at it helplessly, because he can’t even look at Marty right now, it’s fucking impossible, feels like it would be a fucking intrusion, everything about his own presence unwelcome and despised. 

Marty’s saying things, he realizes, harsh voice, words flying fast. His head fucking _hurts,_ has been pounding since their fight in the parking lot, but now the pain’s been dragged to the forefront again, when it has been nice and inconsequential all fucking afternoon. He takes a deep shuddering breath, because there’s something like nausea curling in his stomach, or maybe it is his lungs, who can say; feels his own chest trying to expand with air, actually fucking restricted by the vice grip Marty still has on him. 

(Did the same fucking thing _again,_ Rust thinks, with something that in another lifetime might have been close to fondness, asshole never fucking learns. Rust could break his grip easy as anything, break his bones too, if he put his mind to it. If he could get his hands to cooperate.) 

Marty’s stopped ranting. Rust isn’t sure why, tries to roll his head back into position, tries to focus. 

“Wha-”

Marty makes a derisive noise, air whooshing out of his nose like a bull. 

“I _said,”_ he says, “You’re a fuckin’ piece of shit, asshole. You’re _scum._ You think you’re so much goddamn fuckin’ better than anyone, strollin’ around life, judging _everybody_ else and then what do you do? Huh? You fuckin’ shitstain? You go ahead and you _fuck_ my _goddamn_ wife-”

“Jesus Christ...” Rust slurs, trying and probably failing to sound indifferent. “The fuck d’you want, then? You fuckin’ foamin’ at the mouth ‘cause you didn’t get your turn?”

Marty almost punches him then, Rust can read it on his face, can feel his entire arm twitch with intent. He’s panting like he’s just run a mile, Rust can fucking _feel_ that too, because they’re so close Marty’s chest is pressed up right against his. His breath smells like Whiskey, sour and hot, like the aftertaste of smoke. Rust does another shuddering exhale, can’t help himself, sick feeling curling around his heart, clinging to his ribs. 

He’s staring at Marty’s red, livid face, everything about him familiar and well-worn, right down to his anger, and when the fuck did that even happen? Which is exactly the moment Marty decides to push his knee between Rust’s legs, forcing it in and _up,_ and Rust’s entire body seems to freeze and go completely slack at the same time. 

“Wanna say that again?” Marty growls and if he was all up in Rust’s face _before_ then he’s completely on top of him now, so close their noses are touching, shaking Rust a bit after every other word for emphasis. “You motherfucker? _Huh?_ You go ahead and fucking say that again-”

They're both breathing hard now, practically panting into each other's faces, and Rust's fucking _shoulder_ is starting to hurt again, of all things, because Marty's gripping his undershirt so tight the shoulder strap is digging into the bruise there, which coincidentally is also a souvenir left by Marty this morning. 

There's a different kind of ringing in Rust's ears now, the one that signals the adrenaline, fight or flight-reflex ready to go, the one that makes his heart hammer in his throat and his limbs feel all jittery, because _something_ is going to happen, something is about to happen, something is happening-

Marty's buried his face against his neck, all of a sudden, hot, damp breath shivering against Rust's skin and then he scrapes his fucking _teeth,_ bites down right where Rust's neck meets his shoulder, and the entire world tilts on its axis. 

"The _fuck-"_ Rust rasps out, all on one exhale, sounding fucking shocked, because he _is,_ he didn't see this coming at all- it hurts and it doesn't, and somewhere in between Rust has fumbled for Marty's collar, desperately fisting the back of Marty's shirt, well-worn and soft and damp with perspiration. 

Marty's upright again, wrenching his head back like it takes _effort,_ and then he’s just staring at Rust, wide-eyed and panicked. Rust blinks back at him, feeling helplessly rooted in place and in his own body, like something ancient and elemental is keeping him where he is, refusing to let him leave; he wants to tune all of this out and can’t, what the fuck is _happening_ here- 

Next thing he knows they’re scraping their mouths together, lighting-quick brush of a kiss, like an accident, like a test run, like something that might actually be fucking dangerous, and Rust has to blink his eyes open _again,_ and then he’s shivering right into the next kiss; both of them clearly terrified by their own reaction, by the vague outline of what they might do next. 

“Door,” Rust manages, voice a hoarse scratch that hurts his throat. “Gotta close the damn... Marty-”

“Shut up,” Marty says, too loud, sounding scared. _“Shut the fuck up,_ I swear to God-”

Rust pushes him backwards, just a bit, just enough, still has to cling to his shoulders after that because his legs feel weak. Marty lets him, doesn’t protest when Rust shoves the door closed with unsteady hands either; on the contrary, he’s right fucking there when Rust turns around, impossibly close and impossible to miss, crowding him back against the door. Shoves his leg back into place again, and this time Rust can’t help but rock down against it, thigh muscles tensing at the sensation shivering up his spine.

Marty kisses him then, or maybe Rust kisses him, he’s not sure of _anything_ at this point, everything off kilter, reality just barely hanging onto the hinges of what should be in the realm of possibility. Marty’s like a tree crashing through a roof, like a telephone pole denting the side of a fucking car, hard to miss and even harder to ignore. They’re clinging to each other like they’re still trying to have a fight, hard and unforgiving, except it isn’t a fight, doesn’t seem like one at all. 

Rust’s mouth feels slick and bruised – because it is, he thinks, because it fucking _is,_ because earlier today they beat the shit out of each other – and Marty’s just taking and taking and _taking,_ working his tongue inside and not letting him breath at all. One of his hands has found its way underneath Rust’s wifebeater, touching his hip and then sliding upwards, pushing the fabric up as it goes, and then suddenly he’s pulling away again, starts pulling at Rust’s shirt instead. Wrenching it off his shoulders becomes a team effort, because they’re both too drunk and uncoordinated about it, Rust almost elbowing him in the face in the process. 

“Jesus,” Marty keeps murmuring, and “fuck” and “Jesus _Christ”_ , like he’s doesn’t quite understand what is going on.

“C’mon,” Rust says eventually, might have been seconds, might have been an hour, fuck if he can tell anymore, trying to tug him into the right direction. Doesn’t even know why he’s doing it, the functioning part of his brain practically screeching at him what a spectacularly bad idea this is; but he can’t _not,_ feels like he has no choice in the matter, because every other cell in his body is screeching at him too, and every single one of them wants and wants and fucking _wants._

“C’mon, Marty, just-” and somehow they’re moving now, Marty _letting_ himself be moved, with an arm wrapped so tightly around Rust’s waist his battered ribs ache with it, or maybe that is just the general sensation of everything right now, some weird feeling of dread sticking to his lungs, the one that keeps reminding him that this is just a reprieve, that this is temporary at best – and yes, _everything_ is, what is life but a quick, unwelcome reprieve from returning to dust and ashes – because he’ll still have to wait for the other shoe to drop, will still have to be here when Marty decides the break is over and goes back to despising him again. 

They’re right next to the mattress now and both of them are keenly aware of it, and _aware_ that the other one is aware, awkwardly pawing at each other because nobody wants to make the first move. 

“You gonn’ take any of that shit off or what,” Marty says suddenly, breathlessly, bravado so fake it’s basically fucking see-through; and Rust feels another wave of heat course through him. 

“Might,” he says, “You fuckin’ want me to?”

“Oh, _fuck_ you,” Marty hisses and starts unbuckling his own belt. Rust stares at him for a long moments, watches his hands work on his clothes, quick and sure with familiarity. Pulls his own undershirt over his head then, to return the favor, quid pro fucking quo, and starts peeling his jeans off, except Marty is fucking _on_ him again before he can finish. Pushes at his shoulders, digging his thumbs in, and Rust can’t help but just let him. He sits down heavily on the mattress and then Marty’s shoving him backwards and down, rolling on top of him like he’s got something to prove. 

It doesn't come as a surprise – far from it, actually, because Rust has never really thought about this (which is a fucking lie and a half) but it always seemed fairly obvious that even in theory, for Marty it would be all about dominance, about “being a man”, about calling all the shots; even more so now, after Rust went and smashed his fucking ego to pieces along with his marriage. Still, it’s fine, it’s better than fine, it’s all good, _fuck-_ his body curving towards the weight on top of it immediately, instinctively. 

Marty doesn't seem unaffected at all, which is something at least. He’s in his boxers now, hell only knows when exactly he managed to get rid of his shoes, and drags Rust’s jeans off the rest of the way without even paying it much attention. When he settles back down again, fingers digging into the meat of Rust’s thigh, moving it out of the way, creating space for himself, making himself _at home_ , like he has the fucking right, Rust’s breath hitches. He can’t help it, didn’t even know it was going to do that and then it’s too late, Marty’s eyes flitting up to his face, startled. 

Rust can’t, cannot, absolutely fucking _won’t_ look at him, not right now, not like this. Stares at Marty’s collarbone instead, at Marty's chest, flushed red and a bit freckled, feeling like he might choke on his own hammering heartbeat. 

It comes as a total surprise when Marty kisses him again, hard and a bit awkward about it. Rust opens up easily, lets Marty lick into his mouth, moaning at the sensation. 

Everything hurts and feels amazing at the same time, glowing hot and bright and feverish, like they’re radioactive or some shit like that, panting right into each other’s faces anytime they have to break for air. Marty’s hand is at his hip, kneading at the skin; Rust's got his leg drawn up, foot planted on the mattress, so there's a space for Marty to press his thumb into, where the boxers are riding up, right at the line where Rust's thigh starts. Rust feels like he's burning up, head swimming with it, a confusing mix of mindless panic and justified anger and _arousal,_ plain and simple, dick nothing but a hard, hot line wedged between their bodies. 

That's what he is, he thinks, that's what they _both_ are, mindless animals trying to get off, wanting to come, chasing after some kind of satisfaction. Marty's hard too, Rust can fucking _feel_ him, erection trapped somewhere between Rust's stomach and his hip, searing like something that's actually, physically hot, sensation amplified every time Marty rocks down. 

They're just mindlessly grinding against each other, graceless and frantic. Everything about it feels good, is the terrifying thing, apart from the overall fucked up situation, it just feels… so fucking _good._ Rust wants to tip his head back and moan, wants to go limp and hold on and just enjoy the fucking ride – except of course he can't, because everything between them is fucked to hell, shattered into a million pieces and there's no gluing it back together again.

Marty’s fumbling now, fingers twisting themselves into the material of Rust’s boxers, right over his thigh, and Rust twitches at the touch, at the suggestion of it, shocked to his core despite everything that is going on right now, leg muscles spasming. Marty stops what he’s doing immediately, pulling back a bit, staring down at him, expression on his face a weird mix of defiance, nerves and hurt. 

“That the way it is?” Marty says, low and mean. "Yeah? You gonna give it up for fuckin' _everybody_ ‘cept me?”

Like Rust has so much as _touched_ anybody since Lori left, like he so much as _looked_ at anybody for what probably amounts to actual years before she came along, except Maggie of course, can't forget Maggie, like she had any goddamn idea- and suddenly Rust is moving, pushing himself upright and Marty off of him in the process, shoves him sideways. 

“What the fuck are you-” Marty says, outraged.

“Shut up,” Rust snaps. “How ‘bout you shut _the fuck up,_ for once in your goddamn fuckin’ life,” and then he can’t talk anymore, cuts his own sentence short, because his mouth is on Marty’s dick now, moving wetly over the hot, fabric-covered outline of it, material growing damp with his spit.

“Holy Jesus,” Marty says, stunned. His hand finds Rust’s head immediately, but he doesn’t grab for the back of it, trying to control the situation; it lands on top of it instead, fitting itself right over the crown like he’s giving benediction, unexpectedly gentle about it. Rust drags his underwear down his thighs without looking, because can’t seem to tear his mouth away. Buries his face against Marty’s stomach and licks at Marty’s dick, fat with blood, practically trying to leap into his mouth. And shit, Rust thinks, was Marty ever _not_ lying about being decently big, all that fucking swagger had to come from somewhere, and it sure as hell wasn’t confidence or self-awareness. 

“Jesus,” Marty pants again when Rust swallows him down, sucking him in, in, _in_ until his throat starts to protest, feeling dizzy with it already. He’s probably doing a bad job, uncoordinated and messy, because it’s not like Rust has sucked off a lot of guys over the course of his life, and even less without being high, but it’s not like he can stop or slow down either. It’s fucking impossible. 

He works at Marty’s dick until his mouth is tingling with sensation, feeling swollen and used, keeps having to swallow around the heady taste, mouth filling with spit. Marty keeps muttering curses, twitching upwards with a low grunt, helping Rust find a rhythm and it’s _easy_ from there on out, is the thing, Rust doesn’t have to _think_ anymore, can just lose himself in the slick slide, the weight on his tongue, the way his mouth stretches wide. 

Every single muscle in his body feels shivery and weak, the longer it goes on for, everything loosening up, spine melting right into the pleasure of it all. He knows he’s hard himself, aware of the fact that he’s working his own hips against the mattress somewhere in the back of his mind, trying to get some friction out of it, but it’s inconsequential and too much at once. Couldn’t focus on that right now if he actually tried. 

It doesn’t last anyway; Marty pants, fast and surprised, “Oh Jesus, _fuck-”_ way too soon, and then he finally _does_ tighten his grip in Rust’s hair, holding him down a bit, but he’s still being unexpectedly gentle about it – far from the worst Rust has ever had. He bucks up when he comes, groaning towards the ceiling, and Rust chokes a bit as he tries to swallow it all down, salt flooding his mouth and making him moan, not the taste so much as the realization of it, the undeniable, searing truth. 

He works Marty through it for as long as he can, for as long as he dares, not wanting to overstay his welcome. When he struggles upright again, it’s like the bones in his arms have liquified, everything feeling sticky and slow and pliant. Half expects Marty to have his eyes closed, but he’s staring up at him; face flushed and damp, with his chest rising and falling unsteadily.

Rust blinks at him, wiping over his mouth with his palm as he’s crouched awkwardly between Marty’s sprawled out legs; and he must be so very obviously hard in his boxers, his own body still more than ready to go, fucking _aching_ for some contact, and at a complete and utter loss. 

“Well,” Marty says hoarsely and then he pointedly clears his throat and says, fast and unsure. “Get t’fuck over here then, c’mon.”

He opens one of his arms in a strangely romantic gesture, clearly unsure about it, almost flings it to the side, and Rust wants to call him out on it, because what the fuck does Marty think this is? What are they going to do next, fucking hold hands or something? But still, inexplicably he goes, fits himself along Marty’s side, and it’s impossible _not_ to rest his head on Marty's arm as he settles against him, because it is right fucking there. 

Marty’s hand is trembling – with the aftershocks or with nerves, it’s impossible to tell – but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t fucking matter _at all,_ because he puts his hand into Rust’s boxers; hovering at first, plucking at the elastic of it for a few long seconds, before he works up the courage to actually do it. As soon as he’s shoved it inside he’s fumbling for Rust’s dick, and the rest of the world gets drowned out. 

Marty’s hesitant at first, not sure about what to do, but he seems to get over himself pretty fucking quick, because Rust probably couldn’t be more responsive to his touch if he fucking tried. Buries his face against Marty’s shoulder, feeling like he should be mortified by his reaction, should at least _try_ to keep his distance, because after all Marty hates his guts, but he _can’t_ and can’t bring himself to care either. Whines against Marty’s skin, a low, hurt sound and once he’s started he can’t seem to fucking stop.

Rocks his hips and desperately fucks into Marty’s fist maybe ten, maybe fifteen times, while Marty grips him tight. He’s so obviously trying to get it right, to react and adapt to what Rust’s reacting to, not exactly good at it, but the intent is so very clearly there.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice gone guttural, lips shaping the words against Rust’s temple. “Like that, huh, baby? That the way you like it?” 

“ _Fuck-”_ Rust hisses, and then he realizes he’s going to come, movements becoming erratic, dick pulsing in Marty’s fist, he's _already coming fuck-_

It washes over him; a deluge of bright, devastating sensation, making him shudder and moan as he rides it out helplessly. Marty keeps petting his head with his free hand, curled up a bit awkwardly, because Rust’s head is still lying on his arm. It goes on and on and fucking _on,_ until he's nothing more than a limp bundle of body parts, shivering in the aftermath. 

His boxers feel wet, sticky with come and whrn Marty pulls his hand out, he seems to be at a loss. Stares at it for a long second while Rust watches him cautiously, trying to keep his eyes open, heartbeat still hammering in his throat. Then Marty suddenly pulls away.

Gets up and pulls his own underwear back on once he's upright. Rust flops backwards and watches him pad around out of the corner of his eye, listens to him washing his hands at the sink. Tries to calm down and can’t. Tries to analyze the situation, figure out what to do next, where to go from here. 

Can’t do that either.

There’s footsteps and when he starts paying attention again, Marty’s standing right there next to the mattress, staring down at him with trepidation, working his teeth inside his mouth, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Rust has no idea what’s showing on his face right now. Doesn’t even feel like an actual person. 

They’re both waiting for Marty to turn around and leave, because… well. It’s what he’s going to do. It’s as obvious as the sun setting in the west, an absolute given. Two grown-ass men in their underwear, battered and bruised, and fucking weary of each other. Except.

Except Marty is not collecting his clothes to put them on and march out the door again; Marty is rubbing his hands over his thighs, once again seeming to gather his courage for something.

“So, ah-” he says finally, too loud, trying to mask his insecurity. “You, you got, erm… somethin’ to drink left ‘round here somewhere maybe?”

Rust struggles to get his elbows under him, lifts himself up from the mattress a bit lopsided. Swallows, and then has to swallow again. Stares down at his own knees, and then up at Marty’s face, before he has to drop his gaze down to the floor.

“I…” he says. “Yeah. Yeah, probably... long as you ain’t picky.”

“Well…” Marty mutters, sounding like he’s talking to himself more than anybody else. “Guess I ain’t. You gonna get up or what?”

“Yeah,” Rust says again. “Shit. Yeah. Okay.”

And then he does.

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ONE OF THE BEST AND KINDEST AND MOST ENTHUSIASTIC PEOPLE EVER!  
> I have no idea why my brain settled on the single most dramatic thing ever instead of something nice and sweet and fluffy like they'd actually deserve... but it's too late now lmfao.


End file.
